


guys my age don't know

by cakecakecake



Category: RWBY
Genre: Age Difference, Casual Sex, Choking, Drinking, F/M, Female Reader, Hook-Up, Pet Names, Smoking, Strangers, bar/pub
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-09 17:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13486722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakecakecake/pseuds/cakecakecake
Summary: 'bout to get attention from a grown-up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> coming to terms with my hot uncle figure complex. i've been wanting to write some bar hook-up sex for a while now and this drunkle bird is the perfect fit. probably two or three chapters at most, i'm working on a lot of rwby material simultaneously <3

It's not even ten and you're already thinking of going home. You clutch your second woodchuck and slip through clusters of sloshed academy graduates and amateur huntsmen to the back door, cigarette tucked into your shirt. Hopefully the pushy guys who slid into your booth won't follow you out--yes to a beer doesn't mean yes to jacking him off under the table, and guys are so mean when they're drunk and don't get what they want. You snort to yourself, snapping your cigarette case closed. Guys are mean _sober_. Another waste of time. You light your little roll of tobacco, puffing out an "o" with the smoke--time to delete yet another hook-up app from your scroll. Maybe you should try someone older. 

A low rasp of a voice hums from over your shoulder. "Got a light?"

You almost drop your cigarette with a startled gasp. You whirl about to meet whoever's asking and--oh, shit. It's almost like the gods are real and were just listening. An older guy. 

A really fuckin' hot older guy--you glance at the BFS clinging to his back. A huntsman. You try not to smile too wide. "Yeah, sure." 

You offer him your lighter and his fingers brush against yours, rough and a little coarse. He's wearing rings, but lucky for you, not on the one finger that counts. Shit like that doesn't mean much these days, you guess, but intuition says this one's definitely single. The streaks of grey in his hair and his five-o'-clock shadow tell you he's probably got at least fifteen years on you--not quite old enough to be your dad, but nowhere near young enough to still be in academy. He lights up and hands it back to you with a roguish grin. 

"You're too pretty to be smoking," he teases you, unsubtly taking his time giving you a once-over. His eyes are a deep, winey red. Thick eyelashes.

You scoff, laughing bitterly. You take another drag and bravely, you tease back. "And you're too hot to be talking like my father." 

He coughs on a laugh--he liked that. He strides up next to you, leans against the wall. "Your daddy tell you not to smoke too?"

"Daddy, ex-boyfriend, uncle,"--his smile quirks at that last one--"you name it."

"Well, drinking's not much better," he offers, watching you blow out smoke with your lips pursed in an oval. "You here alone?"

"I came here to meet somebody," you start, nervous--he's extremely cute and you don't wanna bore him with too much talking. "But he brought some rowdy friends and--well, you know guys my age."

His arm brushes yours as he pulls himself standing. He laughs, raspy and throaty and the sound pulls your heartstrings taut. "Yeah, I know all about guys your age. You're at least twenty-one, right?"

You feel a little insulted, but he's probably just trying to be careful. "I couldn't get in here if I wasn't."

"You'd be surprised," he drones, putting out his cigarette at the bottom of his shoe. He flicks it into a nearby ash pillar. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

You tell him and he chuckles, baring his teeth with a fond smile. "Pretty."

_Shit, you're pretty_ , you think, but you won't say it. "Th-thank you."

"Name's Qrow." 

"Like the bird?" Well, yeah, duh. He laughs some more.

"Like the bird." He reaches for the satchel on his back and pulls out a flask. Its contents are so strong you smell it before he even gets the cap fully unscrewed. 

"You live around here, kid?"

You nod, frowning a little as it registers that _he_ probably doesn't. "Just up the road." You eye that BFS again, half-smiling. "Are you in town on _business_ , or--?"

"Funny enough, I'm not," he answers after taking a swig. "Here for my nieces' graduation."

"Your--nieces?" you repeat, curious. "Any kids of your own?"

Qrow spits into a fit of laughter, leaning on you for support before he doubles over. His touch is so warm and you feel your stomach doing back flips--"Oh, gods, _kids_? Oh, no no no. I don't--well, none that I _know_ of."

He winks at you, his big hand clutching your shoulder and you pray your blush isn't too blatantly obvious. "O-Oh--"

"No no no," he goes on, thoroughly amused, "for the better of the world's population, I'm just a very cool uncle."

"You ever wanted to be a father?" you barely croak out, instantly regretting it--a super personal question is the quickest way to chase somebody off, but he just looks at you pensively, speculative, and you're made to wonder if no one's ever asked him that before.

"Maybe," he considers, mulling it over. He caps the flask and pockets it with a shrug. "If I wasn't the way that I am, maybe I would've been."

You think he's just alluding to the life of a Huntsman and you won't ever know that you're wrong. Unsure of what to say, you mutter something about how late it's getting, that maybe you should start along home. It's a test, one that hardly any potential playmate ever passes--but to your favor, this time it works.

"I'll walk you."


	2. Chapter 2

"You're gonna fuck up your back, walking like that."

He rolls his head, cracking his neck before shooting you a daring glare over his shoulder. "You sound like my niece." Probably not the most assuring thing to hear from a guy you wanna fuck, but he doesn't seem bothered. "You live alone?"

Quirking your brow, you sputter, "Yeah, I -- I do."

"Family not around?" 

You shuffle forward uneasily -- it's an awkward subject, so you keep it vague. "No, not so much. I've been on my own for a long time."

His elbow nudges yours. "Seems like you're doin' alright with that." He means it.

"Oh, th...thanks." You almost ask him about his family, but you could probably guess the answer -- family talk probably isn't the sexiest pretext for seduction anyway. So you trod along, coming up on the part of the road where the streetlamps start disappearing and remind yourself to watch your footing. The pavement is full of potholes and there's no sidewalk once you've hit the neighborhood; rocks and debris all over. You let him know that the only lights you'll be seeing will be from the windows of your neighbors and he strides closer to you, almost protectively. (It's cute.) It's darker than it'd been just an hour ago and the clouds are clustering together -- a flash of lightning strikes just beyond your duplex ahead. Rain is due out -- a quaint setting for your hopeful endeavor, you think wistfully. The wind picks up and you shudder at the chill, wishing you'd brought a jacket to go with your little black dress. Qrow slows his pace, watching you rub your arms. 

"Alright there, kid?"

"It's just a little cold," you smile weakly, squinting through the winds as you hurry a little ways ahead of him. You hear a snap, a flutter of twill -- and feel his hands fasten something about your neck. Your heart rate winds up; you're thankful he can't see you flush too well in the dark.

"Better?" He asks, winking. You clutch his cape more tightly around your shoulders.

"Y...Yeah, thank you." 

He chortles, resting a hand at the small of your back. "You're really cute, kid." 

"Wh -- geez, thank you," you stammer, cheeks feeling hot. It's ridiculous and childish, but you can't help but feel so weak in the knees you almost stumble. You tell yourself to keep it together, at least until you arrive at your place, but luck would have a different plan for you. 

You look up at Qrow to tell him you're about two blocks from home when you trip over an obnoxious rut in the pavement and crash to your knees, skin splitting on shards of a broken bottle. You double over in pain, trying not to scream but _lords_ does that hurt. His arms are around you within seconds to help you stand, but you fall limp --

"Ahh _fuck_ ," you hiss, swiping your hand over the cut. Blood smears over your leg and your hand and Qrow hovers over you anxiously.

"Whoa, easy sweetheart, can you walk?" he cooes, the smooth timbre of his voice distracting you from the searing pain. 

"I think I'm fine --" you waver on the spot and he catches you before you blunder again. "Okay maybe not, nope, oh geez --"

"C'mere, kid." 

He whisks you off the ground into a bridal carry with feline grace, dizzying you as he steers away from the pothole (and any other obstacles in view). It's like you weigh nothing in his arms, or maybe it's just your heart that feels feather-light. He smells like whiskey and cheap cologne and nameless hotel-branded soap, a pleasant sort of rugged musk. It makes you nostalgic for something you can't place, reminding you of something you've never had. There's a tight thrumming in your chest you haven't felt in a long time, like something's plucking at the strings of your veins. Your blood pumps hotter. "Your place up there on the right?" 

"Yeah," you say, trying to keep your breathing steady. "I'm in 69."

He chuckles lightly. "Nice." 

"Did you really."

"I'm not too old for jokes."

"Even bad ones?" you pick on him but he laughs along. 

"You got a first aid kit at home, right?" he asks, eyeing your leg. Oh, right. You'd almost forgotten that this shit kind of really hurts. You lean your head against his shoulder, your mouth just a breadth from his open collar.

"Not a fancy one, but yeah, I have gauze and shit."

"We can work with that."

"I'm sorry," you say in a small voice, and he furrows his brow. 

"What for?" 

"Making you carry me," you tell him bashfully. "I'm not usually so clumsy." 

"Maybe you're just _falling_ for me," he teases you devilishly, his voice rumbling low. It's one of the oldest and cheesiest lines in the book, but fuck if it didn't make you tingle just a bit. 

"More bad jokes." You don't want to start laughing again, but it helps take your mind off the stinging pain. 

"I got a million of 'em," he hums, nearly cut off by a an ear-splitting crack of thunder overhead. "Ah, shit. Of course."

You sigh, half-laughing as the rain comes pouring down in heavy buckets -- it's the relentless, unforgiving kind of downpour that drenches you in seconds (because why wouldn't it be). Qrow sighs, resigned but laughing about it.

"I'm so sorry," you tell him through giggles and he shakes his head. 

"It's alright, a little water never hurt," he says gently.

You grip him tighter, watching the streams of water rivet down his neck, pooling in the dips of his collarbones. You chew on your lip, imagining him pulling off his wet clothes, pulling off your soaking dress --

"This it?" he asks suddenly, pulling you out of your head and you tell him yeah, we're here. You fumble for your keys, still lulled comfortably in his arms as you let yourselves inside. He kicks off his shoes. 

You reach behind his head and switch the front room's light on. "Here, just -- put me on the couch."

"You sure it's fine?" 

"Yeah, I'm only a little wet," you assure him -- then he smiles, furtive and foxish. 

"For now," he says darkly, and your breath hitches. He sets you down on the couch, ghosting his hands up the length of your legs, skirting the hem of your dress as you stare back wide-eyed. "Where's your bathroom?"

"On the -- over here on the left," you stutter. He takes his time getting up. You glance down at your leg and a thick rindel of red crawls down your shin. You let it hang off the couch, wincing as you adjust yourself to sit up straight, leaning against the arm. The sight of blood hasn't made you queasy in the past, but with the added nerves of having someone extremely attractive in your home, it's heightening your anxiety to a miserable level. You close your eyes, trying to take deep breaths as you hear Qrow fumble through your cabinets for the goods. When you open them a minute or two later, he returns with a washcloth, the small kit and without his coat on. Oh.

He's not shirtless, but his tank top is tight enough that every contour of his sinew is available for your viewing pleasure. He's not hulking or burly like a lot of Huntsmen you've seen, with his modest biceps and slim waist, but he's toned and tight, very defined. He catches you ogling and holds your gaze as he uncaps the peroxide. 

"Enoying the show?" he says coyly, watching your face flush from pale to pink. 

"S-Sorry, I --" 

He settles onto the sofa beside you and rests your leg in his lap, starting to massage your ankle. "This hurt?"

You shake your head, finally losing some tension in your shoulders. "No."

"Mmm." Qrow wipes the blood off to get a better look at the cut -- it's not a very big one, just keeps bleeding a lot. It doesn't seem to run deep at all, and there's no glass stuck in it. He dabs peroxide on the cloth and gently presses it against the cut. "This'll sting a little --"

You wince, breathing shallow as he cleans it off. He glances up at you dolefully, muttering shh, shh, you're alright as he bandages you up. Your increasing arousal is very quickly shrinking the pain; this is very strangely sexy, having this veteran Huntsman tend to your wound like this, even if it's just a small cut. 

"You've got a pretty sizable bruise, but you'll be fine," he says fondly, bending down -- he softly kisses your knee, thumbing over your bandage. You swallow and smile, stretching out your arm to take his hand and he lets you, his eyes trailing over your neckline, the curve of your middle. "We should get you out of that wet mess." 

You make to stand, but he guides you back down in search of a zipper, hands roaming up and down your back until he catches it. Raising his brows, he wordlessly asks permission and you let him unfasten your dress, shivering at how warm his hands feel against your clammy skin. You sit up, lifting your arms so he can pull it over your head and he does so with relish, slowly, eyeing you up and down and palming at you here and there, in "safe" spots like your waist, your arms and over your shoulders. You whimper as his hands graze your chest, gracing the lace of your bralette. He smirks, sliding a finger between the strap and your skin.

"Well, isn't this cute."

"Thanks," you mutter, inching slightly closer to him. 

"Hoping you'd get to show this off to somebody tonight?" he purrs, leaning forward. Your bralette's straps are falling and your face is but a few inches from his.

_Maybe_ is all you can think to answer with. Truthfully yes, you had been, but the fact that you actually are is a half-expected surprise. He seems satisfied with your coy reply, his dark eyes sharply focused on your lips. Instinct tells you to brace yourself for the incline of his head, the impact of his mouth on yours in a ravenous devour of a kiss, but he is unmoving, still. Watching your expression shift from expectant to perplexed. His lips quirk and it registers now that if you want something to happen, you're going to need to instigate. You think of the condoms in your bedside table, of the pill in your cabinet you bought weeks ago, just in case. Your bedroom is clean and the storm has set the ideal mood and you may have had a couple drinks, but you're only light-headed, if anything. The alcohol honestly might not even have much to do with that. Your mental checklist takes as long to mark off as it takes to ball up your fist in his tank top and edge into his lap. 

He grins. Like he'd been hoping you'd do this. "Hey there."

"Qrow," you murmur, hands curling around his neck, "I --"

"Yeah?" His eyes flutter shut and you cease to form coherent thought. 

You tilt your head, pressing your lips against his in a tentative, shy kiss. Droplets from your damp hair drip onto his face and neck and he slowly snakes his arms about your middle, holding you closer. You part your mouth, welcoming his tongue against yours and the taste is more like honey and ginger than whiskey or whatever he'd been sipping from that flask. It's spicy, like biting into a root raw. His tongue rolls over yours a few times over, exploring, teasing as his breaths grow more erratic. You feel his arms flex and twist as he grabs harder at your waist and your back. 

"Qrow..." 

"Mmmhm," he mutters, moving on to clip your jawline with his teeth, a hand raked in your hair. You groan, grinding against his hips as he nips away, getting caught in the haze of your blossoming arousal. 

"I -- can we -- bedroom?" 

Mindful of your bad leg, he grips under your ass and you drape your legs around his hips as he lifts you. Kissing your neck again, he sways left, making to walk past the bathroom and you moan, stifling a giggle. 

"Other way, other way --"

Another grunt, and he steers around, twittering a laugh as you meet his mouth again, aggressive this time. Qrow seems to appreciate that quite a lot, slamming you against the wall with a forward thrust of his hips. You dig your nails into his shoulders, clinging tightly to him -- you'd love to stay right here but probably can't hang on too well with that bruised leg, so you groan into his ear, "Bed, bedroom, _bed_ \--"

"Right, right," he mutters, carrying you through the door. He kicks it shut behind you and pins you against the mattress, littering your neck with more bites and rough kisses. You card your hand through his hair as you feel him travelling south, tracking open-mouthed kisses along your stomach as his warm hand paws between your legs. You crane your neck forward, watching as he takes the strap of your underwear in his teeth --

"Qrow, what are --" 

He pulls them down off your hips with a covetous grunt, winking up at you and you feel yourself _throb_. 

"You don't have to --" you start, but he's already mouthing at your entrance, stealing your breath. Blood pumps loudly in your ears as his hot tongue swirls around your clit and his fingers claw at your thighs. It feels like your melting cunt-first into his mouth as he presses his teeth against the head of your nerves, moving torturously slowly, like he wants to memorize the taste. Mind-numbing oral isn't the kind of foreplay you're used to, but Qrow's proving again that he's not like guys your age. He slides one, two fingers inside of you, wiping his dripping mouth with the back of his unoccupied hand. 

"I'd bottle that taste and put it in a flask if I could," he grouses, craning downward to suck at your neck. You chortle softly, far too sparked too care about how sickly cute he sounds. You grasp his wrist, urging him to stretch you farther and he smooths hair over your face, meeting your eyes in earnest. "How you feeling, kid?"

"A little empty," you admit, your own voice sounding foreign. He mocks offense, clutching at his heart.

"What, these not enough for you?"

You giggle, writhing under his hands. "Not that this isn't great, but -- I do have preparations for something more filling." 

He cocks his head to the side table. "They in there?"

You nod vigorously, wetting your lips as he reaches into the drawer beside you. He takes out a condom and turns it over in his free hand, inspecting it, like he doesn't somehow trust it. "Give me one second."

He tosses it on the bed, leaving the room and you wonder if you should be worried about him -- performance anxiety? Maybe he has his own in a brand he prefers? Is he stroking himself in the bathroom? Before more intrusive thoughts can burden you, he returns, clutching a small bottle of something that looks like maple syrup. 

"What's that?" you ask him, feeling relieved when he smiles. 

"Added precaution," he answers, swirling the contents before taking a sip. It doesn't smell pleasant, but he gulps it without grimacing. "Doesn't taste as bad as it looks. Now then..." 

Crawling back over you, pushing his still-clothed hard-on into your bare groin, he kisses you slowly, fervidly, sliding a hand back between your legs. "You still want something filling?" 

"Oh, y-yes," you tell him, yearning. You reach downward to trace the shape of his erection and your wetness splotches the fabric constricting him. He groans in your ear, his heart beating hard against your breasts. He twitches at your touch, so you undo his belt, pulling at the zipper of his pants. He helps you shrug them down and tosses them aside, his smallclothes damp with pre-cum. You grind your pelvis into him, aching when he draws his fingers out of you, your hot fluids webbing about his fingers. 

"I can't believe how wet you are," he mutters huskily, licking your wetness off his fingers and you whimper while you watch. 

"Qrow, please," you beg him, clawing at his chest. He pulls off the tank top finally and your draw up your fingers to traverse his skin, outlining his battle scars and birthmarks -- there are so many --

"Alright, alright," he gives in, grabbing the condom laying by your head. He rips it open with his teeth and chucks the wrapper. "You've been a good girl." You grin in delight and help him roll it onto his shaft, making sure it's secure before guiding him inside of you. 

A sharp gasp spurts from your throat as he fills you, tight and hot and oh lords that's exactly what you were craving. Steady and evenly paced, he rocks into you, smirking, holding back from going too deep on purpose. Jaw clenching, you boldly grasp at his throat, earning yourself an amused scowl. 

"A little freaky, aren't you doll?" he gruffs, digging his nails into your hips. You let out a guttural moan and arch into him, thrusting upward. Not releasing your handle on his throat. You test him, squeezing him just enough to draw out a cough. Eyes shining and glassy, he stares down at you unblinking, as if daring you to choke him harder. He drives his cock into you more roughly and you clutch him tighter. 

"You've got a strong grip, sweetheart," he hums. He wraps his own hand around your neck. "Let me show you mine." 

You howl out a groan, coughing a little as his grip compresses your throat. It's like having to gasp through a straw, constricting and frightening but devastatingly thrilling. You hook your nails into his shoulder blade, drawing streaks of white down his back as he slams hard into your cunt with hard snaps of his hips. A thin sheen of sweat glimmers across his face and his chest, making his ashy black hair cling to his forehead. You push the hair from his eyes, staring up at him adoringly as he keeps thrusting, begging him _please, don't stop_ \--

Qrow watches you intently, jaw tensing as he listens to you gasp breathlessly. Every thrust is making you quiver, sending sparks shooting up your spine, cracking fireworks in the front of your brain and hazing your vision. You cinch your walls around his dick, squeezing as hard as he's choking you and oh, wow, he laughs like a god, he loves that. He's pulsing hard inside of you and you start trembling, his pelvis angled just right enough to hit a sweet spot --

"Qrow, I'm --"

"Y-Yeah, me too --"

He comes first, flooding the condom inside you, spasming within your walls so hard it sets off your climax too, heat coursing through your veins. He sinks his teeth into your neck, grasping your sides and you claw his back, the tremors of your crash rolling off of you like waves. Panting in your ear, Qrow slides out of you, peeling off the condom and tying it up before dropping it into your wastebin. You huff out heaving breaths, light in head and heart as you watch him find his garments and pull them on. You grab a t-shirt hanging from your bedpost and pull it over your head, smiling his way. He winks at you. 

"Fun?" you giggle, content. He wets his lips, brushing them against yours in a tease. He nips at your earlobe, rubbing the intendations of his rings on your neck. Admiring his work. You grin, leaning into his touches. You're sure you've left some choice art of your own on his back. 

"You know it, kid." 

You take a pause, noting the quiet of the atmosphere. "It stopped raining."

"So it has," he realizes. A jerk of his head and he titters, "You tired?"

You think about it. You watch his arms flex as he straightens up his pants. You think about it some more and decide, no, you're not. He grins at you like a delinquent. 

"You wanna go grab another drink?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love qrow's edgy teen walk but i'm so worried about his back and his neck how the fuck is that comfortable
> 
> i'm not entirely pleased with the ending but i'll probably revisit it and edit much later on
> 
> okay so i have this really involved headcanon: because of his misfortune, qrow's probably got a few illegitimate children out there due to birth control failing -- so once he's mature enough to realize this he becomes super adamant about using protection. i like to think oz formulated a kind of magic potion for him to take that prevents him from getting anyone pregnant/contracting diseases. LOL

**Author's Note:**

> Big Fuckin Sword


End file.
